I wrote a blurb for this guy, Michael Wells, for his fantastic chapbook, File Folder. You should ask him to give you a peek; I'm not sure when it's coming out.
Here's the blurbification:
The poetry in Michael Wells' File Folder takes the mundane, spins it around on a fingertip like a magic basketball, and elevates it until it shines above us. Wells’ poetry represents the apotheosis of Americana; in his work, the quintessential American highway stretches up and out of this world. He takes catfish and pool cues and coffee, and does something subtle with them, something just beyond the periphery of your vision. Suddenly they are limned with a quiet light. His poems are understated and sly, melancholy and plain. They’re beautiful like old horses out in a gray empty field are beautiful. When you close your eyes, his images still burn there.